Re:Animorphs - Book 01 - Re:Invasion
by BackslashEcho
Summary: What if the Animorphs got a Peggy Sue chance to do it all again? What would they do different? And will that make it better or worse?
1. Prologue

"Can we shoot?" I looked away from the hideous shifting face of The One, unable to bear the sight of my friend and comrade Aximili-Esgarrouth-Isthill's face disfigured by a toothy, red-rimmed mouth that did not belong there.

"His Dracon cannon have longer range and greater power, and his defensive fields have been enhanced. I doubt our cannon can penetrate them." Menderash replied, making no effort at all to hide our discussion from the alien whose foul visage took up our ship's viewscreen and more, projected somehow in the light that was so bright it seemed to sear through the bulkheads.

"Thought so," I said. The detached calm of command was descending, just like in the old days. "But we're faster."

"Yes."

"Okay." I should have been scared, should have been terrified. We were all going to die, after all. But I'd been there and done that, over and over and over for three long years during the Earth-Yeerk war. Right now, there wasn't time to be scared.

I took a deep breath, looking around the bridge of the _Rachel_ at the rest of our tiny crew, but remembering the Animorphs as they had been.

Rachel. Dead on my orders.

Ax. Lost and taken by the enemy now before us.

Cassie. Left behind on Earth to protect her from this suicide mission.

Tobias. Staring back at me with the eyes of a hawk. Literally.

Marco. My best friend. A remnant of another war. I met his eyes.

"What was it, Marco?" I said. "'Crazy, reckless, ruthless decisions'?"

Marco nodded. He looked sick with fear. I knew the feeling, but I was smiling. I knew what I had to do. And I knew that if she were here, Rachel would approve. I gave the order.

"Full emergency power to the engines. Ram the Blade ship."

Our superior engines took us to maximum speed in nothing flat. Menderash threw up our own defensive fields so that we wouldn't be incinerated by theirs. Force fields are not supposed to touch each other. The noise was unbelievable. The light surrounding The One at the front of the bridge was so blinding now it blocked out all sight.

OBSERVE. AN INTERESTING CHOICE, NO?

INDEED. SHALL WE GIVE THEM ANOTHER CHANCE?


	2. Chapter 01

My eyes popped open and I jerked upright, screaming. Light streamed through the window. Dust swirled through the bright sunbeams illuminating an Independence Day poster on the wall.

A digital alarm clock on the beside table read 13:37. I was back in my old bedroom. An ancient CRT computer monitor sat upon a crappy wall-desk. The right panel was a little warped, and on the left corner some particle board showed through the faux-wood formica where my dog, Homer, had chewed it before I trained him not to.

None of this helped to steady my breathing. I had replaced that poster years ago. And that was when I still had a family—when I still had a home. During the war...or before.

What was going on? I had been on the _Rachel_, the ship we'd named for our fallen comrade, dead cousin, best friend, lost love... She had been so much to so many people, had meant so much to all of us, that when we embarked on a suicide mission, we named the ship after her because she gave us all strength.

Had that mission been a dream? It seemed impossible. We had spent weeks, months in space. The memories didn't slip away like a dream. I remembered the awful preserved food we ate after Marco and Menderash polished off the Cinnabons. I remembered the cramped cabin and the wide bridge and the horror of The One. And before that, I remembered preparing for the mission, remembered convincing Tobias and Marco, remembered saying goodbye to Cassie for the last time. And anyway, I remembered that I hadn't lived in my parents' house for years. What was I doing here, instead of at my home in Santa Barbara? Not that it had ever felt like home exactly, but I'd gotten used to the comforts of the place.

DING-DONG.

The doorbell. I ignored it; went into the bathroom across the hall. Where was my usual coterie of bodyguards? They weren't obnoxious like a bad movie plot; they didn't do anything that made my life particularly difficult, and they kept me safe from attacks by terrorists and the like. Lots of people with a bone to pick after the war, who saw us, saw me, as the ones responsible for the devastation. And in a way, we were.

The face I saw in the mirror looked white and terrified. It also looked...younger. I ran a hand through my hair, brushed from my forehead the overlong bowl cut I hadn't worn in half a decade. I touched a completely smooth jaw, one I was certain had never seen a razor. There were no stress lines in the forehead, no tear troughs down the cheeks, no wrinkles at the corners of the eyes. I looked as young as I had the day we first saw the Andalite. The day that everything changed. Had I finally cracked?

I was a junior high school kid again.

How?

Why?

Too many questions and zero answers.

Rather than panic, I tried to force myself to think rationally. We had been pulled or forced into false realities and alternate timelines before. Was this the Ellimist's doing? No, he would have spoken to me. Crayak would have sent the Drode to taunt me. I remembered hearing a voice...or two voices that sounded the same... The voice or voices had sounded familiar, but I was sure I'd never heard them. It. Whatever.

So what was going on?

My hands shook. I stumbled back to my room and sat down on the bed, staring at them.

A scuffing sound drew my attention, and a big golden retriever came through the door.

"Homer?" I whispered, my mouth dry.

At the sound of his name, Homer bounded up and put his paws in my lap, licking at my face.

"What are you doing here, boy? I had to have you..."

I'd had to have Homer put down in the years after the war. Once the Yeerks had learned who I was, my family had been taken and the war moved into the open. No longer bothering with stealth, the Yeerks had neglected to take care of Homer. He'd gotten sick and never recovered.

When the war ended, I moved back into my parents' house. I'd tried to help Homer, but he couldn't even stand up toward the end. I carried him to the vet myself, on foot, as a way to say goodbye.

Homer was also the first animal I had ever morphed, as a way to try out the gift the Andalite had given us. The curse he had placed upon us. The morphing power: the ability to change into any animal we could touch. The physical contact was necessary to absorb the animal's genetic material, its DNA. Then, by concentrating, we could use that DNA to become that animal, wholly and completely. The animal's mind and instincts even came along with it, making morphing dangerous if you turned into an animal like a shrew, which lived its life virtually paralyzed by fear; or an ant, which are eusocial to the extent that there is no individuality whatsoever. Morphing Homer had been fun, though. Dogs had good senses, easygoing instincts, and a strong desire to simply play. Dogs had a good life.

I thought about running away, sometimes when the war was bad. Just morphing Homer and running away as a nothlit, which is what the Andalites call someone who is trapped in morph. See, the morphing power has some downsides, including a time limit: stay in morph for longer than two hours, and you stay forever. We used to wonder how the Andalites knew how long an hour was on Earth, but after a while and some extremely close calls with the time limit, we realized that the morph clock is actually slightly longer. A few minutes, maybe. Elfangor had told us two hours because that was the closest approximation that we would be able to understand.

My mind was whirling, my hands scratched Homer behind the ears without me thinking about it. I was still trying to make sense of it all, when the doorbell rang yet again.

DING-DONG DING-DONG DING-DONG!

I jumped at the insistent ring. Whatever was happening, I needed to play along.

I ran downstairs and crossed the living room to the door. Whoever had rang was now banging on the door. The silhouette against the curtain had long hair.

I pulled the door open. And froze.

So did she, her fist still raised to knock again.

I stared at her. She stared at me. Neither of us moved for a very long time.

My throat was so tight, I didn't think I would be able to speak at all. My voice came out in a hoarse croak.

"Rachel?"


End file.
